


Alliances

by FictionPenned



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alex asked why we even have this lever, Dancing, Other, ThoscheiLockdown2020, ThoscheiTreatLockdown2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: He pulls her close and presses his free hand into the small of her back.The Doctor is gratingly, painfully aware of their proximity. She can feel the slight tremor that wracks his body and the thin veneer of sweat that clings to his palms, and she meets it with a small, white flash of a predator’s grin as the old storm rises to the surface. “Nervous?”“Never.”She almost believes him.Response to the prompt "Thirteen and Dhawan!Master are both at some type of formal dance, and end up partners" for the Thoschei Lockdown exchange.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88
Collections: Thoschei Lockdown The First 2020





	Alliances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThoughtsCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtsCascade/gifts).



The air buzzes with music and excitement. It floats through the air and seeps into the skin and makes even the most stubborn wallflower want to start tapping their foot. It’s been a while since the Doctor has attended a 51st century shindig -- two faces and a horrible pile of trauma that she has no desire to unpack -- but she’s been in desperate need of a pick-me-up. Her world has fallen down about her ears, and she wants a distraction that sticks a bit longer than a handful of ginger humbugs and a spot of trouble.  
  
Almost immediately as she passes through the doors, clad in a dark grey tux with a glimmer of rainbows tucked within the lining, the Doctor is swept up into the arms of a sweet-smelling female stranger. Though the Time Lord doesn’t know the steps to this particular dance, her partner is a helpful and enthusiastic guide, and she has a decent enough sense of rhythm to fumble her way through a vague yet clumsy approximation of the steps without drawing too much attention to her ineptitude.  
  
When the song ends, they swap smiles, a quick bow, and a couple of genuine thank yous. For a moment, the Doctor almost manages to forget about the baggage that sits heavy on her shoulders and the pain that screams within the confines of her mind. However, that peace is perilously fragile, and it only takes a gentle tap on her shoulder and a familiar murmur hovering near her ear to shatter it entirely.  
  
“Mind if I cut in, love?”  
  
Panic swells in her chest and bitterness spreads across the back of her throat as she spins around, eyes wide and blonde hair flying. Call her foolish, but she did not expect the Master to return so quickly. He has always possessed a flair for defying death -- it is one of the few habits that they have in common -- but she expected that she might be permitted enough time to catch her breath before he forcibly inserted himself back into her life.  
  
“What are you doing here?” The question spits and stutters, tongue paralyzed by the sheer force of her shock.  
  
His lips tighten into a smug smile as his fingers adjust the set of his bracingly purple sleeves. “Same as you, I imagine. It’s the party of the century. Everyone who's anyone is here, and it is always a pleasure to brush shoulders and build _alliances_ .”  
  
“It’s always about alliances with you, isn’t it? How’d that work out for you last time? Betrayal and a spot of near death just keep you coming back for more?” The Doctor's lip curls in a derisive sneer, and her voice edges steadily upward until she’s practically shouting. A disconcerting number of heads turn in their direction, curious as to what might have possibly caused the commotion.  
  
“Doctor.” The name is firm, spoken alongside an outstretched hand and a pointed look. “Best to discuss this over a dance, if you would be so kind. We don’t want to cause a scene, do we?”

The Master leans back on his heel, spare hand sweeping aside his jacket just enough so that she might be able to catch a glimpse of the Tissue Compression Eliminator clipped to a pocket.  
  
A groan sneaks past her lips as the Doctor’s eyes roll skyward. It’s never just a chat with him. There must always be bargaining chips on the board and murder knocking at the door. How quickly he has forgotten that in the long centuries of their childhood, she offered her attention readily and clung to his side with gleeful enthusiasm. Threats may encourage begrudging compliance, but they do not buy her mind or her heart. He need only be himself to do that -- his _old_ self, the mind that sparkled and the tongue that promised that he would one day travel the stars at her side -- not the monster that he has become.  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” she grumbles, taking a step forward and placing her hand in his.  
  
He pulls her close and presses his free hand into the small of her back.  
  
The Doctor is gratingly, painfully aware of their proximity. She can feel the slight tremor that wracks his body and the thin veneer of sweat that clings to his palms, and she meets it with a small, white flash of a predator’s grin as the old storm rises to the surface. “Nervous?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
She _almost_ believes him. 

They set off at a tempo that does not quite match the music, but instead falls in line with the telltale four beat drumming of a Time Lord’s hearts. 

“What do you _want_ ?” the Doctor asks after a lengthy pause, careful to keep her volume under control.  
  
He avoids her gaze, keeping his eyes on the dance floor as they turn, careful to avoid collision with the other couples. “I told you. I’m here to brush shoulders and build alliances. I didn’t know that you’d be here, but I should’ve guessed you wouldn’t miss a chance to show off.”

A gust of indignant laughter bursts from her lungs. “ _Me_ ? _Show off_ ? I’m not the one strapping outdated weapons to my hip like a drama queen.” 

“I’m not pointing it at you, am I?”  
  
“You shouldn’t point it at _anyone_.”

“You might not have noticed, love, but my hands are otherwise occupied.” The hand at her back wanders, fingers slipping beneath her jacket and walking up her spine in a way that always got her riled up in the old days. She squirms and stumbles, trodding on his feet in the process. No matter how many times the Doctor cycles through bodies, a handful of fundamental habits linger beneath the skin, and he knows how to press all of those buttons.  
  
They pause their dance long enough to untangle their legs before they set off again. The Master’s hand returns to proper form, but a smug smile lingers at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“Who’re you building alliances with anyway?” The Doctor says, attempting to hijack the conversation and circle back around to where it started before the Master has a chance to chase down something unpleasant. “It’s not like people come here looking to form war councils.” 

The Master lazily casts his gaze about the room. It doesn’t interest him anymore. Whenever the Doctor enters his orbit, she commands every ounce of his attention. Everything else is secondary, but of course, he can't tell her that.

“Hardly a loss. I never much cared for war councils,” he quips. “Not really my style. Not yours either, if I am remembering correctly. Did you not once break your own rules and point a gun at one?” He _tsks_ his tongue against the back of his teeth before pitching his voice down into a teasing accusation. “How _scandalous_ of you, Doctor.”  
  
Already disarmed by the rush of his previous touch against his back, she accidentally allows both grief and a faint echo of love to slip past her emotional walls at the mention of that traumatic day, emotion flashing in her eyes and welling in her chest. That day with the council, she fought to her last to save him, never even considered pulling the trigger even when he begged her to. The memory, paired with the nostalgic and primal way her body still insists on clinging to him, is an unpleasant reminder of the sentimentality that lingers in her hearts, even now. 

It takes her an embarrassingly long moment to hone her complex thoughts and clouded emotions into coherent words, and even then, she flounders into blushing vulnerability. “Liked it better when we were just dancing.” _Liked it better when I was angry_. Rage is easier. It divides the universe in a way that makes it possible to pass judgement without hesitation. Every time the rage falls away, she finds herself tangled in a web of childhood crushes and moments of pure, unbridled sympathy, and those muddy the waters between them, carrying her further and further away from the clarity that she desires. 

Due to the inherent risk of compromising his own position, the Master does not meet her in her current emotional space. Instead, he merely offers up a dry comment. “Lucky for you, my card is free. Save the universe by keeping my hands busy.”  
  
“Shut up,” the Doctor snaps, irritation rustling beneath her skin. The bitter rush improves her spirits, snaps her out of the spell, sharpens her mind and her tongue back to their former glory, however, she keeps following in his steps and does not pull back from their contact. An angry fool is still a fool.   
  
Sporting a positively wicked grin, he spins her away before tugging her back again. “In your dreams.”


End file.
